


Between Hither and Yon

by 8sword



Series: His Fucking Kids [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cain!Dean, Clairestiel, Dad!Castiel, Dad!Dean, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Episode: s01e12 Faith, Episode: s02e19 Folsom Prison Blues, Episode: s04e16 On the Head of a Pin, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, Episode: s06e05 Live Free or Twihard, Episode: s07e22 There Will Be Blood, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Mark of Cain, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Sick Dean Winchester, Time Travel, Vampire Dean Winchester, angel!Claire Novak, stepsisters!Claire and Emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/pseuds/8sword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What the fuck," says the double of Dean that's standing next to the Impala that's now sitting in the middle of the grass, its bumper brushing Dean's GrillMaster. "I don't know what's weirder here, the time travel or the naked angel on my car."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After "Disney Princess," people wanted de-aged Cas and Dean. And I had this sort of morbid fantasy about Emma having some sort of Christmas Carol-esque experience where she got to see how Dean grew up because someone suggested she might understand him better if she saw what he was like before....and it turned into this. Sorry?
> 
> Only a two-parter this time. I swear.

  

I'm afraid that some times  
you'll play lonely games too.  
Games you can't win  
'cause you'll play against you.

All Alone!  
Whether you like it or not,  
Alone will be something  
you'll be quite a lot.

And when you're alone, there's a very good chance  
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.  
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,  
that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.

\-- Dr. Seuss, [ _Oh, The Places You'll Go!_](http://homepages.ius.edu/harrisla/places.htm)

 

* * *

 

            Dean is starting to feel like his life's turned into an episode of _Sabrina the Teenage Witch._

            One minute he's leaning against the counter in the kitchen, admiring Cas's ass as Cas puts together his awesome spiced hamburger patties with the ground chuck Dean bought at the store that afternoon, and the next there's a deafening _BANG_ and _CRASH_ from his backyard that has him spinning around to look out the kitchen window.

            "Are you fucking kidding me?" he bellows when he sees what's landed inches away from his brand-new grill. He charges out onto the back porch in his socks, flinging open the screen door. "You guys've only been sixteen again for _two_ _weeks_ , what did you not understand about _no more fucking witch stuff?"_

            Claire at least has the grace to look ashamed. Which, okay, she's probably faking it, but still. Emma just goes, "Oh my God, Dean, calm your tits. The spell needed _salt_ , it's not like it's demonic."

            Dean would've lobbed back some totally witty retort if he wasn't too busy staring at the _naked angel lounging on his car in their back yard._

            "What the fuck," says the double of himself that's standing next to the Impala that's now sitting in the middle of the grass, its bumper brushing Dean's GrillMaster. "I don't know what's weirder here, the time travel or the naked angel on my car."

            "I remember this," Cas whispers, coming up behind Dean on the back porch. He's still wearing his apron over his Oxford and slacks. This one was a gift he'd gotten from the girls for Christmas that says **PUT A LITTLE MEAT IN YOUR MOUTH** because nobody does sexual harassment like Claire and Emma do sexual harassment.

            Dean might have laughed, especially at the way past!Dean's's jaw kind of drops when he sees what the apron says. But Cas's hand is less a gentle supportive touch on Dean's back and more a grasping-a-fistful-of-Dean's-shirt as past (naked!) Castiel stares back at them both. He's rolled onto his stomach on the Impala, kicking his legs in the air. There's something almost insolent in his gaze, and Dean feels a burst of protectiveness, and anger.

            Emma is _so_ grounded when this is done.

            He turns his glare from past Castiel to past Dean. "Hey!"

            Past Dean looks at him. He's wearing that leather jacket they got after some jack-ass nicked Dad's. It's so new it doesn't even have creases in it yet, and Dean doesn't know whether to laugh or puke, thinking about how shredded it'll get in Purgatory.

            He clenches his jaw instead, glares at his past self. "You gonna grab your angel or what?"

            "Or what," says the other Dean, his face white. But he mutters, "C'mon, Cas, what're you doing?"

            "That girl is an Amazon," old Castiel remarks, still kicking his feet slowly. His eyes are on Emma, head tilted in fascination. "Did you know she has begun to crave blood?"

            Emma's face goes whiter than anything. Dean can't even begin to process the emotions that surge up in him then, the terror and the fury--because holy shit Emma's craving blood, shit shit _fuck_ , and why would Cas _do_ that, why would he fucking say that in front of her?--and he doesn't have time to, either, because he's lunging for past Dean. His double's suddenly got a blade in his hand, is surging foward faster than Dean's been able to manage in years because age and cushy civilian life have slowed his reflexes to shit, and his flinty eyes are on Emma.

            Then past Castiel grabs him by the arms. Shoves him back and plasters his naked front to past Dean's, keeping him from advancing.

            Past Dean jerks away.

            Past Cas doesn't release him. Just leans closer and breathes, "Would you blame her, Dean?" His voice sounds suddenly like it's from 2014, drawling, all needles beneath the slow slide. "For needing a little _blood_?"

            Past Dean flinches. He shoves Castiel's hands off of him. Dean feels sick watching it, watching the way Castiel's eyes flicker downward, sanity bruise-dark beneath his lids, and realizes what he never had before.

            Cas's insanity wasn't real. Maybe never had been.

            His eyes go to his own Cas's. They meet his, sadly, but there's no time for anything else, because Dean's turning away, shoving the feelings away to do what he should have done like ten minutes ago, which is put himself between the two 2012 crazies and his kids.

            Emma flinches as he comes closer. "I'm sorry," she starts to say, but something on Dean's face has her voice faltering into silence.

            He turns to look at the other Dean, still standing behind Castiel with the silver knife in his hand. "You lay a finger on my kid and I'll rip your fucking balls off."

            Other Dean sneers, and Dean steps further in front of Emma, doesn't want her to see this, the ugly expression on his face, the hatred Dean knows isn't for her, not really. There was no one he'd hated more than himself back then, and he'd deserved every bit of it. Maybe still does.

            Past Castiel opens his mouth. But before he can say anything, he's fading, and so is past Dean, and the past Impala, imprints from Castiel's butt cheeks still on the hood, until there's just the big gouges its tires left in the grass and the cicadas buzzing and nothing else.

            They all stand there in silence for a long moment, the air too heavy to breathe, until the smoke alarm starts to shriek inside.

            None of them move to go turn it off. Dean takes a few steps away from all of them, squeezes his hand around the grill's handle and mutters, "Shit."

            Silence for another moment, the shrilling of the smoke alarm. Then Cas's voice, low: "Emma. Why didn't you tell us?"

            "Why do you _think_?" Emma probably means for her voice to come out sarcastic, but it trembles on its way out, cracks on the last word. She's not looking at Dean; he wishes she'd look at him, wishes she knew he's not the same person he was then, in that jacket, shoving Cas. He wishes _he_ knew that.

            But if his own kid's scared he's gonna kill her, then maybe he is that person still. Maybe he's just been fooling himself, thinking he isn't.

            Emma jerks her shoulders, hunches them in. "I should go to the panic room," she mumbles.

            Dean's insides fucking _liquefy._

            "Oh my God, Emma," says Claire. Her voice is sudden and loud, angry and confident, it gets inside Dean like a shot of whiskey. "You think you could get the drop on one of us even if you tried?" And she elbows Emma in the fucking _boob_ , what the hell, and Emma's shrieking "Fuck!" and clutching it in pain. But she's also laughing, the sound edged with hysteria.

            Claire smirks and pats Emma's collarbone. "Just imagine if I'd pinched it," she says, matter-of-fact, and Emma's laugh spills the rest of the way into relieved, her fist coming up to swipe across her eyes.

            "Better not, you assbutt," she says with only a little tremble. And while she's wiping her eyes Claire casts a glance over her shoulder at Dean, and something in her eyes wrenches Dean back to that moment in Pontiac, watching Castiel's grace shine out of a little girl's eyes. It's threat and promise and protection, and it reassures Dean in the worst way.

            The alarm is still going off in the kitchen.

            Cas says, "Perhaps we should just have soup, tonight." No one really answers, unless the smoke alarm shrieking counts, so he says, "Emma, Claire? Would you mind heating some up?"

            Claire pokes Emma toward the door. Emma goes, stumbling a little, pausing next to Cas like she wants to say something and then shaking her head and taking the porch steps two at a time to catch up with Claire. The screen door bounces shut behind them. Through the open window there's the sound of a chair being dragged across the kitchen so one of them can reach the smoke alarm, and then the shrieking finally stops.

            The air feels empty without it. Dean's ears feel naked in the sudden silence, exposed. He clears his throat and turns the dial on the grill to **OFF**. Cas is still there, waiting, watching, and Dean can't do this right now. He walks around the side of the house in his socks, lets himself into the garage. Takes a beer out of the half-fridge that's next to the Impala and leans against it, holding the beer between his palms until it's warm, until the sounds of his family moving around inside the kitchen have gone quiet.

            He really hasn't changed at all.

 

\- o -

 

            When he comes up their bedroom later that night, Cas is still awake. Dean senses it, the way he can always sense Cas's eyes being open, even in the darkness, like a touch along his skin. He stops at Cas's side of the bed in the dark, fully clothed, socks still rough with dirt and bits of leaves.

            "Of all the us's that could have come back," he says to the dark shape under the darker covers. "Why'd it have to be them?"

            Cas says nothing. Dean doesn't either, just slides down the side of the bed until he's sitting with his back against it, eyes adjusting to the darkness, making out the edge of the nightstand, the book of Cas's that had been pushed off of it onto the floor when he'd woken Cas with a surprise blowjob this morning.

            Cas's fingers touches the top of his head. Press against it, lightly, five points of pressure, then lets his palm rest there, a warm weight that makes Dean feel heavy, and light. Then it slides down to rest at the curve of Dean's neck, just rest there, their pulses beating against one another's, wrist to throat.

            That's when they hear the scream.

 

\- o -

 

            Cas charges into Claire's bedroom ahead of him, holding the knife he'd yanked from under Dean's pillow. Dean's stomach pitches with dread as he follows. All he can remember is Emma's relieved face and how he'd trusted Claire to make sure nothing happened.

            But instead of Emma over Claire, they find Emma between Claire and a third, larger shape. Cas slams his hand onto the light switch, and the thing lets out this strangled panting _groan_. Dean's guts twist up and try to punch their way out of his mouth. Because he'll never forget how that felt: the smeared blurry vision, the way light stung, the way everything swam around him like someone'd roofied his drink, pitching forward without control of his body, the thirst, the _thirst._ And he's filled with shame, because no one knew about this, he never wanted anyone to find out about this, had hoped that Sam had never remembered it, that it had stayed safely behind whatever wreckage of Death's wall remained in his head. But here's that skeleton out of the closet, panting up at them with blind, thirsty green eyes.

            "...Dad?" Emma whispers.

            "Right here," Dean says automatically. Low, soothing, not wanting to startle it, him, _it_. "Right here, baby."

            "Don't move yet," Cas rumbles, and at the sound, the vampire's head snaps around. Its eyes are watering, the moisture trailing down to bared, glistening fangs, and Dean is going to throw up.

            "Dean," Cas says sharply.

            The vampire lunges. So does Cas, grabbing the girls and yanking them backward as Emma snarls, her eyes flashing yellow. Their centripetal motion carries them into Dean. He half pulls, half shoves them out into the hallway, grabs the huge-ass calculus textbook from Claire's desk and hurls it at her ceiling fan. The light fixture is slammed off, exposing the naked 100-watt bulb inside. The vampire grappling with Cas hisses, doubles against the light. Dean hauls Cas backward by the t-shirt he's wearing, feels something sharp graze the back of his hand, and tumbles them both out into the hallway.

            Emma and Claire are ready: Emma slams the door shut behind them, and Claire shoves the stupid credenza Cas bought at a yard sale in front of the door, gouging long streaks through the hallway floor. The door shakes, rattles.

            "Machetes in the panic room," Dean gasps, hand still clenched in Cas's shirt. He uses it to haul him close again as they thunder down the stairs after Claire and Emma, patting his neck, his face, his hands, for bites. " _Shit_ \--"

            "Dean. Dean, I'm fine, you're the one who's bleeding--"

            "Fuck," Dean snarls, is snarling at himself because his hands are still shaking, his heart is tripping, he doesn't want to hear Cas, doesn't want to hear what he must think, what he must _think_ , knowing that Dean became that. "Fuck, why did I think it was a good idea to leave all the machetes downstairs--"

            He stops short, shoves ahead with an extra burst of speed, sweeping Claire and Emma against the wall with his arm. They both shout out, but he doesn't hear them over the blood galloping in his ears. There's another dark figure standing in the dining room, in front of the shelf covered in the Disney pictures Cas had developed and framed only yesterday. It's wearing a trench coat, and when it turns, it says, "Hello, Dean."

            And Dean wants to be mad but instead he feels like he's been punched in the gut. He looks between that Castiel and the one beside him, and someone's saying, "Did you know? Did you know about-- _that_?" and it takes him a minute to realize it's him.

            Neither of them answer. Dean remembers the sharp sour scent of Lisa's terror, the sound Ben had made when he slammed him against the wall. Remembers thinking somewhere in the back of his animal mind that Cas would be coming any moment now to stop him, get a hand around his neck and shove him into the wall to save him from himself the way he had before, before he'd left.

            But he hadn't come, and now Dean knows he'd known, he'd _known_  what Dean had been turned into and what he'd been doing, and he still hadn't come. And Dean's seizing him by the lapels, slamming _him_ into the wall, except this Castiel doesn't take that, this Castiel doesn't move when Dean shoves him or when he yanks him, _why didn't you stop me_ ; his coat moves but nothing else, not even his eyes as he stares impassively at Dean. And Dean can't believe he's doing this in front of the girls, but the spots on his head where Cas's fingers had pressed only a few minutes ago are burning, burning like brands, like stupidity, like when he'd spent the summer after Sammy's senior year doing everything he could, hustling all the money he could to buy Sammy books, to take him out to the movies, to make it up to him for not being able to go to college like he'd wanted, only to find the pack of Stanford dorm placements forms and class schedules in his bag in August and realize that Sam had never been planning to stay in the first place. How could he have been so _stupid_.

            Past Castiel stares up into Dean's eyes. Then suddenly he's gone. Dean's fists are curled around empty air.

            Then, as quickly as he'd disappeared, he's back again. Only this time he's got the Dean vampire with him, his hand around its throat as he holds it suspended in the air, indifferent to the claws it's digging into his arm.

            "Is this what you wanted?" He's looking at Dean still. He tightens his hand; Dean hears the choking sound his own past self makes, the sickening sound of a trachea being crushed, a pulpier sound.

            Castiel repeats, "Is this what you want?"

            "Stop!" Emma cries, running forward. Cas catches her, locks her in his arms.

            "I nearly killed them," Dean says, low as if he'll be able to keep the others from hearing, but he's not sure who he's talking to, this Cas or his. "I nearly _drank_ them."

            Castiel is still watching him, though he has brought the other Dean, panting and slumped, to its feet on the ground now, has pulled it toward him as though to cradle it, one hand cupped over its streaming eyes. "Better them than you," is all he says.

            Then, like they'd planned it, he and vampire Dean fade and are gone.

            The silence they leave behind is deafening.

            Emma's the one to break it this time. "Dad?"

            Dean makes a sound. She whispers, "Was that--?"

            "Yeah," he grits. "Your dad was a vamp. Puts a lot of things in perspective, doesn't it?"

            Emma stares at him. And he's so full of poison right then, of hatred and self-hatred that he nearly lifts his arm to hold out the bleeding cut on his hand to her, smirking at the way her pupils have gone big and dark. It's Claire saying, "Dean" that stops him, and he feels sick, he feels dirty, but Emma's looking at him like she feels even worse, and that's not fucking fair.

            He lowers his bleeding hand. "C'mere," he says, and cups the back of her head with the other to press her to him, keeps the bleeding one pressed against his side so she won't smell it,  puts his face to her hair. It's got that burnt smell from when she flat-irons it straight, makes him think of how close they came to killing and burning her in Seattle, how she'd just be another salted and burned corpse in an unmarked grave, and suddenly there's tears trickling down his face to his mouth. 

            "Dad?" Emma uncurls her hand uncertainly against his shoulder blade, flattens it instead and moves it in a circle, hesitantly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry--"

            Dean shakes his head against hers.

            "I'm not gonna kill you, okay?" he says into her hair. His face is wet, ruining her straightened hair; she's going to yell at him for making her need to flat-iron it again. "That's not gonna happen. I'm not gonna let that happen."

            "Okay," Emma whispers after a minute. Pushes her face into his neck. "Okay."

 

\- o -

 

            "Emma," Cas says eventually. "I think I would like to see the book this spell came from."

            Emma sniffs, once, and pulls away from Dean, carefully, like she's afraid he'll break. "It's in the panic room."

            Good. Maybe they can just hole up there until Cas figures out what this is, how to stop it. Dean clears his throat, says, "Down we go, then."

            Behind him, Claire grips a handful of his shirt as they start to move across the room, sticking so close together Dean's feet brush the back of Emma's with every step. The panic room feels a thousand miles away, not knowing if yet another dark figure will be waiting for them between here and there. It feels like that time with the Witnesses all over again, when they'd walked through Bobby's house not sure what spirit would be waiting on the next landing, behind the next door. At least they were going down the stairs, so they wouldn't have to worry about looking up and seeing one staring down at them.

            What they do find once they're in the basement, though, might be worse.

            It's another Castiel, leaning against the wall just beside the panic room door. His eyes lift to theirs as they approach, but he doesn't move. He doesn't talk, either. Just stares at Dean's Cas. Then, without warning, he pitches to his knees and spews a mess of red hamburger meat and pale liquefied bun onto the floor.

            Dean knows where his own past self is right now, then.

            Dean's Cas doesn't move. But Dean goes to the rusty sink near the old washer and dryer and wets one of the wash rags still sitting on top of the dryer waiting to be folded. He brings it to the other Castiel and crouches down, cups his jaw in one hand and wipes his face. He remembers this Cas, remembers how grateful he had felt that Cas hadn't left him after Famine, hadn't left him alone down there in that cold cellar to listen to his brother screaming for Dean to kill him, _please Dean just kill me I don't want to do this anymore--_

            All he can be grateful for, now, is that Sam isn't part of this spell, that his past self isn't in the panic room screaming now like he was then.

            Cas doesn't turn his face into Dean's palm. He stays very still as Dean wipes his face, breathing in hard, fast pants, eyes darting back and forth between all of them. His gaze, Dean thinks, becomes more and more dismayed the longer he looks, and it's not hard to understand why, this Cas who is in the process of falling seeing that eventually process will be complete, will be permanent.

            At last he lets his darting eyes close, letting out one long breath. His shoulders slump, holding himself over the mess of vomit, and Dean lowers the washcloth to his knee.

            They stay like that, silent, until this Castiel fades into nothing like the others.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, it became three chapters. Of extremely gratuitous angst, no less. I'm sorry.  
> I would suggest re-reading the first chapter if it's been a while. Also "Disney Princess" if you want the intended impact--this fic should actually be positioned as a sequel to that one.  
> As an anon pointed out and I realized soon after writing the first chapter of this, there's no way Sam and Amelia could have a kid J.B.'s age in the short time period that elapses between canon and these fics. As such, I must beg your indulgence and ask you to ignore that fact for the duration of this 'verse since I have already taken such liberties with canon already. Many thanks and apologies...

 

 

            "I'm really sorry." Emma's whisper breaks the silence in the basement. Dean looks over. She looks like she's about to cry. "If I'd known, I wouldn't--I just wanted to see what you were like when you were little."

            "Hey. Hey, c'mere." Dean goes over to her, gets an arm around her. It feels good, the solidness of her, the radiating warmth, after the phantom-like way the falling Castiel had faded. "It's okay."

            He looks over at Cas. Cas looks back for a moment, then away, jaw tense.

            Dean looks back down, at Emma's head, the line her hair makes where it parts. "C'mere," he says again, and clears his throat. Pulls her over the threshold into the panic room. "How about we sit down, huh?" He pulls her with him to the cot against the wall, moves over to make room for Claire to settle on his other side. Emma's still tense beneath his arm, but he keeps it there, begins to talk. "Did I ever tell you guys about the time Sam got the clap?"

            Claire shifts forward. "I thought it was herpes?"

            "Oh, yeah, that, too." Dean thinks, tries to remember past the grief still thudding in his chest. "Actually, I don't think he _had_ herpes, he just had to pretend he did."

            "That was when he got turned into a car?"

            "Wait, when did he get turned into a car?" Emma says.

            "Remember the books Charlie told us about?"

            Now it's Dean's turn to stiffen. He tries to keep his voice level. "You read those?"

            He feels Claire shrink."I didn't _read_ them," she says carefully. "I maybe...wikipedia'd them a little."

            Dean licks his lip. His blood pounds very hard in his ears.

            "Bet you wish you hadn't, huh?" he says, and tries to make his tone joking. Falls really flat.

            Claire inhales to say something. Then there's a thump. And a shout. They're both from upstairs.

            "Stay. _Here_." Dean drops his Taurus into Emma's lap, his machete into Claire's. He grabs a Beretta and another knife from the locker on the wall and meets Cas's eyes as he does the same.

            Dean takes point up the basement stairs. He's listening so hard for any more sounds from the ground floor that he doesn't realize the girls have followed them until, at the top of the stairs, he glances back at Cas and sees Emma and Claire behind Cas on the stairs.

            He widens his eyes furiously at them. Emma flinches, a little, but Claire just gazes back, unclicking the safety on the handgun she's suddenly holding, what the fuck?

            Dean turns back. Closes his eyes, for a moment, then kicks open the basement door.

            Splinters shower across the kitchen tile. Dean goes low, Cas covering high, sweeping the dark room. A "The hell?" comes from the living room; Cas moves immediately toward it. Dean glares at the girls in a _stay the fuck behind me_ and follows, pulling back on his own safety.

            It's like a re-run of before, a dark figure standing in front of their fireplace, looking at the pictures on the mantle. But this time there's someone else beside him. Dean recognizes the cradled ribs, the eyes bruised with darkness. It's like a shock from a naked wire, like the startling jolt of knife hilt hitting bone.

            Emma's fingers grip the back of his shirt.

            Past Dean's eyes are on her. And then on Dean, and then on Cas, and the smile that slides onto his face isn't so much an expression as it is the lack of one, a muscle falling limp and slack from being forced to accommodate too much.

            Too much.

            "Hate to break it to you," he rasps, turning to look at Castiel. "I'm not falling for this again."

            Past Castiel looks puzzled, turning to look at past Dean, then the rest of them, with his light, light eyes. "I don't understand to what you are referring."

            "Look, I already said I'd go back to hunting." Past Dean looks up at the ceiling like he's talking to the sky, rasps more loudly, angrily: "Isn't that enough?"

            "Wait," Dean says suddenly. "You already went to that, what is it--" He snaps his fingers without thinking, stops when he sees the other Dean flinch at the sound. "Sandover?"

            Past Dean eyes him. Licks his lips. "Yeah."

            Cas is looking at Dean. "What is Sandover?"

            "Zachariah dumped me and Sam in some fake universe where we didn't know we were hunters." Dean doesn't look away from his past self. "Shoved a fat dose of predestination down our throats to loosen us up for your big brothers."

            Both Castiels frown, Dean's Cas more darkly than the other. "I was not aware of that."

            "Yeah, well, it happened," past Dean snaps. "And I'm over it, but that doesn't mean I want _Gay Dean: The Sequel_ , so get me the fuck out of here."

            "I am not able to do that."

            "Why the fuck not?"

            "Because we were summoned here," Castiel says. His eyes are on Claire now. His expression is intrigued, like he's appraising her, like she's a newer model of the car he's driving and he's deciding if he should upgrade to power steering and automatic windows. Dean had forgotten how inhuman Cas used to be, how you could see his contemplations moving behind his eyes, dark shapes cutting through water.

            "Hey," he says sharply, and moves in front of Claire.

            Castiel's eyes flick to him. He tilts his head, seeming about to say something, but Cas speaks first. "Dean."

            Dean glances at him. But Cas is looking past him at the other Dean, and pulling something out of his pocket. It's his cell.

            "We can call Sam," he says, "if that would make you more comfortable."    

            Past Dean snorts, giving Cas a hairy eyeball. Then he swipes his tongue across his lip, once, and nods.

            Other Castiel's attention shifts to Cas as he hands the phone to the other Dean. "You are without Grace."

            "I am," Cas says stiffly. To past Dean, he says, "You will find his number under _S_."

            Cas has an iPhone, and the other Dean must be confused by how to navigate it, because he looks lost as he stares down at the screen. Then Dean realizes that Cas's wallpaper is a picture of Emma, Claire, and JB at the barbeque they had at Sam and Amelia's place on the 4th of July.

            Other Dean swallows. He looks up, thumb hovering over JB's grinning face. "This is...?"

            "Your nephew," Cas says earnestly. "John Bobby."

            Past Dean snorts. But there's actual humor in the sound, and maybe something gleaming at the corners of his eyes. "John Bobby. What kind of lame-ass name is that?"

            It's as he's distracted, as he's staring down at the picture on the phone, that past Castiel touches the back of his head. Dean's jumping forward, _what the fuck_ on his tongue, but past Dean's already slumping onto the couch, eyes closed, phone dropping onto the floor.

            "What the hell?! What'd you do that for?"

            "He is overwhelmed," Castiel says. "And still recovering from Alastair. What you are showing him will only cause him more pain, later."

            Dean stares at the angel. Then he grips other Dean by the shoulder, shaking him awake. His past self comes to like a drowning man bursting out of water, dragging in a gasp as he jacknifes upright.

            "Mojo'ed me," he mumbles, eyes bleary and alone. He scrubs a hand across his mouth and says nothing more.

            Someone moves past Dean, crouching before the other Dean. It takes Dean a minute to realize it's Cas.

            He's not saying anything. Just kneeling there, hand on the cushion next to past Dean's knee. Past Dean stares back at him, and they're still staring at each other when past Dean and Castiel fade, and disappear.

 

\- o -

 

            "That's it," Dean says. He's cramming weapons into a duffel bag. "Cas, you're taking the girls out of here. Go to Jody's, I'll finish things up here."

            "With what?" Cas says.

            Dean jerks his head at the spell book lying open on the table. "Gotta be a reversal spell in there somewhere."

            "And if there's not?"

            "Then I'll wait it out," Dean says. "No big, it's not like I haven't already lived it all."

            Cas's face is impassive. "I don't feel comfortable leaving you here."

            Dean snorts. "Why not? You've done it before, haven't you?"

            His voice is dark and ugly. Emma begins, "Dad--"

            "Just _go_ ," Dean snaps. He kicks the door open, hauling the weapons bag over his shoulder. He yanks open the Impala's back door, and a body slides out.

            He's only peripherally aware of Cas shoving Claire and Emma back. His gaze is on the ribboned skin, the blood-flecked face, the old blanket he and Sam used to sleep under in the backseat that's wrapped around the soupy mess, soaked dark and glistening in the light from the open doorway. The world is pitching around him, and there's something else, a burning light in the air over them, around them, and all around a buzzing noise that's climbing to a whine, a shriek, and the Impala's windows are shattering, there's a hand on his shoulder and an extra pressure against his eardrum like someone's shouting into it, but then it's all, all gone.

 

\- o -

 

            Emma.

            _Emma_.

            " _Em_ ma."

            Emma cracks open her eyelids. Claire's face is swimming over her, blue eyes and light brows, and behind them, there's an orange so bright it makes Emma shut her eyes again.

            "Heh. Looks like someone could use a greasy breakfast."

            The voice is familiar. But not. Emma slits her eyes open again.

            "Oh my God."

            Claire shoots her a look that says _right?!_ but also _shut up, don't say anything._ Because they're in what looks like a prison cell, sitting on the floor against the cold wall. And sitting on the bunk across from them, with his legs kicked lazily out in front of him, is Dean.

            Not their Dean. This one looks immeasurably younger, freckled and lineless, his green eyes a sharp that Emma's not used to.

            He hooks a smirk at her. "I'm gonna take it you guys aren't the droids I'm looking for."

            Emma stares at him.

            She's not sure how long she stares for. Long enough that the guy's smirk begins almost to falter, his tongue coming out to swipe across his lip and catch under his teeth, nervous.

            Claire says, "Emma."

            Emma turns to face her almost reluctantly. Can't help thinking about the naked Cas, what he said, or wondering if Claire is thinking about it, too. _Did you know she has begun to crave blood?_

            "I think something went wrong," Claire says.

            Emma nearly laughs. Relief and something else. "No shit, Watson."

            Claire gives her a dirty look. "What year is this?"

            Past Dean looks almost amused again. He's flipping an unlit cigarette between his fingers now, the same way he flips paring knives sometimes while he's standing at the stove waiting for something to finish cooking. Emma's spine prickles again with how weird it is to see him like this, the pale lines of his bared arms, the dark freckles across his creaseless face. It feels wrong. "You two witches?"

            " _No_ ," Emma says as Claire says, "Maybe."

            Emma shoots her a look. Claire says, "We cast spells. It's sort of the definition of 'witch,' Emma."

            Past Dean's smirking again. "What kind of witches land themselves in prison?"

            "The stupid kind," Claire says sourly. Dean barks a laugh, and despite herself, Emma feels a familiar stab of envy. Even a Dean from years in the past who has no idea that Emma isn't human likes Claire better.

            "What are you here for?" she asks abruptly. Dean never said anything about being in jail--but he never said anything about being dead, either, and it races through her like blood through fabric, the memory of that torn-apart body sliding out of the Impala's back seat.

            She lurches forward and throws up.

            "Aw, seriously?" Dean says. But he's rocking forward off his bunk, tugging the pillowcase off his pillow. It's rough and papery and stings Emma's skin when she wipes her face with it. It makes her nose feels raw like an open wound. She sniffles.

            A sound comes from outside the cell's bars. Voices, and  something banging. For the first time, Emma thinks to pay attention to the fact that they're in a jail, and it's at the same moment that she smells a change in Dean's scent, a shift she can't quite identify. His pulse jumps in his throat.

            "If you guys can jet, now's the time." He rocks back on his heels, head turned toward the bars. His neck is a pale stretch of skin above the orange collar. Emma sees the faint bounce of blood against it, the ridge of his jaw as he swallows, the muscle jumping.

            "Wait," she says.

            His eye flicks toward her, green around the pupil she can see her reflection in. Then they're disappearing, her reflection's disappearing, the pillowcase falling through her skin and muscle and bone to the floor, and he's looking back toward the bars and pushing to his feet.

 

\- o -

 

            They slam down in a hallway, stumbling back against a wall. A woman in foam-green scrubs wheels an old man past, eyeing them suspiciously as she passes. Emma barely notices, because in the open doorway behind the nurse is a man lying in a bed.

            She's already moving forward. Claire's on her heels, her tennis shoes hitting the back of Emma's boots.

            They stop at the foot of the occupied bed. Dean's sleeping, purple bags hanging from his eyes and EKG leads crawling out from under his thin hospital gown. It's tied with a limp bow behind his neck. Monitors beep on either side of the bed, and an oxygen mask lies discarded on his shoulder. His breath rattles in, rattles out. He looks ten years older than the Dean in the prison.

            Claire picks up the clipboard from a shelf clipped to the foot of the bed. Emma creeps along the side of the bed, closer to Dean's wan face. Her hands curl at her chest.

            "He's on furosemide," Claire says. Her mouth is unfamiliar around the words. "And dopamine. There's a consult ordered for an IABP." She looks at Emma as she slides her phone out of her pocket to look it up. "Do you know what that is?"

            Emma shakes her head. Claire tries to type it in her phone. "Shit. No internet."

            Emma's hands curl more tightly shut.

            "Claire," she says. "Is he...dying?"

            For a minute, Claire doesn't say anything. She just stares at Dean, her face blank and her hand still clenched around her phone.

            "Of course not," she says finally. "If he died here, we wouldn't've met him."

            Emma swallows. "But if the spell's changing how things--"

            "He's not dying, Emma! God." Claire shoves the clipboard back into its shelf. Her violence sends the plastic shelf clattering off the bed. She hisses under her breath, dropping to her knees to pick it up.

            Emma looks away, out the door. There's a big poster on the hallway wall. It's titled PATIENT SATISFACTION and covered with colorful pie charts. She stares at it, blinking hard.

            Behind her, Claire mutters, " _Shit_."

            Then there's a familiar voice outside. Emma's eyes snap to Claire; she's already shooting to her feet. A piece of paper from the clipboard is crumpled in her fist.

            Their shoulders knock as they run out of the room. Sam rounds the corner just as they skid to a stop in front of the Patient Satisfaction poster. He's years and years younger, his hair as long and shaggy as J.B.'s. The nurse from before is with him; she's saying, "--there anyone else you want to call?" but Sam doesn't look like he's quite listening. His eyes are fixed on Dean through the doorway. His fingers curling and uncurl beneath the stretched-out cuffs of his jacket.

            The nurse finally stops talking. She says something so low even Emma can't hear it, then touches Sam's shoulder and walks away. Emma quickly focuses on the poster in front of them again, pretending to be engrossed by the pie chart about Waiting Times.

            There's the sound of a door closing. Emma looks back over her shoulder once the nurse is gone and sees that Dean's door is shut. She can see Sam's dark figure through the frosted glass set into the door. He's bending over at Dean's beside.

            "Claire," Emma whispers. "He _is_ dying."

            Claire doesn't answer. Emma turns around, tearing her eyes from Sam's silhouette.

            The space beside her is empty.

 

\- o -

 

_"Te nunc invoco, mortem. Te in mea potestate defixi. Nunc et in ae--!"_

 

\- o -

 

            Claire clambers down one flight of stairs, then another. She passes a delivery person with an armful of flowers, an elderly couple smelling of cigarette smoke. The floor is sticky, like someone's spilled soda, and the bottom of her shoes stick against the linoleum with each step, _snick snick snick._

            There's a bathroom. She ducks into it. Locks the door behind her, leaning against the fake wood for just one moment. There's a single toilet in the counter, the sink beside it. A trash can sits between them, overflowing with crumpled paper towels.

            She opens her clenched hand. The paper that fluttered out of Dean's clipboard when it fell on the floor falls out.

            She stares at it for a long, long time.

            Then she takes a deep breath and looks at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. She closes her eyes and pictures white heat, and wings so bright they drive away color.

            She says,

            _Castiel._

            When she opens her eyes, they're glowing.

 

  

 - o -

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case this term isn't used everywhere, "candy striper" refers to a volunteer in a hospital or medical facility.
> 
> Warnings for non-ironic use of Clairestiel. References back to "Pot and Kettle" and "Disney Princess." Lines from "The Rapture" and "The Purge." Semi-spoilers through 9.15.
> 
> Huge, endless thanks to loversforlycanthropes, without whom this fic would not exist. She put up with much whining and rewriting.

**  
**

            Dean wakes up feeling like there's an ocean sloshing inside his chest. It's like when he crawled out of that creepy-ass lake in Wisconsin with the ghost-kid, only this time he feels about fifty times shittier. He chokes and splutters and tries to suck in more air as his lungs splutter and cough it all back out.

            It takes him a minute to realize someone's saying, "Sir? Sir, are you okay?"

            It takes him even longer to get his hand under his pillow, scrabbling for a gun that isn't there. And his first thought is how fucking ashamed his dad'd be of him, getting caught with his pants down like this. His second is what the fuck's a teenager doing next to his bed?

            There's a whirring sound. He feels himself rising up, can suddenly suck in a mouthful of air and keep it down. He coughs, relieved and angry.

            The girl next to his bed hands him a remote. It's one of those plastic ones that raise hospital beds up and down and fuck, he remembers now. Where he is.

            The candy striper's still staring at him with these wide eyes. She's probably scared shitless from how bad his breathing sounds; fuck, he is, too.

            He rasps, "Hey."

            "Hi," she says back, and doesn't move. Keeps staring at him. "Should I--do you need me to get someone?"

            " 'm fine," he pants. He focuses on taking deeper breaths even though he knows it probably won't help. He saw the X-rays of his chest. Knows the crap in his lungs is the reason they feel heavy inside him, like weights he can feel. "Just...catchin' my breath."

            He means it as permission for her to leave, but instead, she just shuffles a little closer, eyes still big and fixed on him. They're a hazel that reminds him of Sammy, a little, and he closes his eyes, forces on as much of a smirk as he can manage.

            "Little young to be a nurse, aren't ya?"

            "I'm volunteering. For--community service hours. For college."

            "Oh yeah?" He tries to lick his lips. His tongue's too dry. "That's good. College is good."

            "What happened to you?" she blurts out.

            Dean barks out a laugh, then immediately starts coughing. Her hands flutter uncertainly above him. Eventually she finds a box of cheap hospital Kleenex on a side table and brings them to him, like a bunch of tissue's gonna soak up the shit in his lungs, and he's not sure whether to grin or hurl the stupid box across the room.

            "Too many Big Macs," he croaks when he's finally caught his breath. "Not enough veggies. Eat your broccoli when your dad tells you to, okay?"

            "My dad doesn't make me eat broccoli." Her eyes are still wide; she's holding the Kleenex box in both hands like it's the Holy Grail or something.

            "Eh," Dean rasps. "Well. Hey, you, uh--" He has another coughing fit, "seen a guy about yea tall? Emo hair, clown feet?"

            "Sa--no," she says, then, "Yes. I think he's coming back really soon, he just had to go do something."

            Dean coughs some more. He's got a bad feeling inside, lower than his lungs; he's worried what Sam's doing, what he's going to do. "Can you get a nurse for me?"

            Her eyes go round in that alarmed way again. "Are you okay?"

            "Yeah, fine." He turns, swings his legs over the side of the bed and grips the mattress as the world sways around him. His legs are bare, skin prickling in the cold air. "Just wanna get outta here, is all."

 

\- o -

 

            The kid's stronger than she looks, and if Dean wasn't so damn tired, he'd raise hell about getting manhandled into a wheelchair by a sixteen-year-old girl. But he nearly dozes off again as she pushes him down the dimly lit hallways, the copy of his AMA discharge papers stuffed inside the front pocket of Sam's huge-ass hoodie. He jerks awake as they bounce over the elevator threshold, rubs his eyes with the cuff of Sam's hoodie as they roll toward the ER exit. It's freezing outside, Dean can feel cold air on his fingertips and against the tip of his nose, his chin, against the damp spots inside Sam's hoodie where he hadn't realized he was sweating until now.

            "How are you going to leave?"

            The kid sounds miserable. It's dark outside, past eleven. A homeless guy is crammed up against a bench in the ambulance bay with a cigarette glowing between his fingers, and for the first time, Dean realizes there's no way in hell a candy striper's working this time of night. He cranes a look over his shoulder at her, remembers he's still in a wheelchair and pushes hastily out of it, only to grab the arm of it for help pitching himself back upright.

            "It's called a cab, kid," he says. Slides his phone out of Sam's pocket, where it's sitting next to the bundle of papers, and shoves his hands back inside once he's dialed to keep them warm as he keeps the phone between his chin and shoulder.

            The kid's still there when he hangs up, hands shoved inside her jeans pockets. She's looking back over her shoulder, at the brightly lit ER waiting room inside the automatic doors. There's something lonely and desolate in the silhouette of her face.

            He coughs. "You can jet now, you know."

            She looks back at him. The loneliness and desolation are still written on her face, so obvious it makes him look away. The homeless man is taking a drag from his cigarette, the thin gray wisp of smoke visible against the dark night, and Dean watches, coughing, wishes for a cigarette in his own fingers. Imagines the warmth of flames, the heat that billows up into his face and chest and arms when he watches a corpse burn.

            "You're gonna be okay."

            He looks over. The kid's glaring at him, almost, like she's giving him an order.

            " 'Course I am, kid," he says. These rugrats sign up to work in hospitals, you'd think they'd learn about death, but hey, she's not his kid, it's not like he's interested in teaching her the harder truths of life. "Sure thing."

            The taxi pulls up, battered white doors, a pizza delivery ad emblazoned on the passenger's side. Dean hobbles forward, braces his hand against the freezing back door to lever himself inside. He pauses, then, and turns back to look at the kid on the curb.

            The ER doors are sliding open behind her. His eyes flick toward them, automatic, and linger because it's another girl about the same age, except her eyes are bright, bright blue, and they're fixed on Dean.

            He stares. She stares back, and steps toward him.

            " _Dean Winchester_ ," she says. " _I have come for you._ "

            The candy striper turns. "Claire--!" There's surprise and relief in her voice. "You--"

            New Chick's gaze lets go of Dean. It fixes on the candy-striper. Her expression is blank, her eyes still too bright to be real. Then she tilts her head.

            "Claire...?" The candy striper sounds uncertain now. There's fear under the uncertainty, and Dean levers himself back up from the cab, free hand going into his pocket.

            "No," Candy Striper says, stepping in front of him. "Wait, stop--"

            Blue Eyes raises her hand and presses it to Candy Striper's forehead.

            There's a burst of light.

            Then nothing.

 

\- o -

 

_He pauses again as he goes to pull the door shut, looks back at the kid standing on the curb and staring at him._

_"Hey," he says. Hesitates a second, then his hand comes up. She stares at it for a minute, like she's not sure what to do with it. Then she leans forward and grips it. Shakes. It's a good handshake, someone taught her right, and Dean grins, starts to cough._

_"Dean?" she says. Her voice further away, suddenly. "Dean?"_

_He's waving her off, trying to say_ I'm good, I'm fine _and_ Kick ass in college, okay? _but everything's going kind of gray around the edges, and by the time he's caught his breath again, the door's closed and the taxi's moving, and when Dean looks in the side view mirror to see the ambulance bay behind them, there's no one on the curb but the homeless man, his cigarette still glowing in the darkness._

 

\- o -

 

            For an instant, Emma thinks her mother is holding her. There are strong slender arms around her shoulders, a sheet of silky hair against her cheek. Emma's heart leaps, and leaps, and leaps. It's high in the air, suspended in her chest, warm and sweet in her mouth.

            She opens her eyes, and it's a dark-haired woman whose lap she is lying in.

            She blinks. She sits up. She tries not to choke on the bitterness of every suddenly aching fiber of her body.

            "Emma," says the woman. Her voice isn't kind, not quite, but it is a command. Emma opens her eyes, only then realizing that she had closed them again in the first place, and looks at the woman, looks around them. They're in a booth in some diner, the window beside them painted with white and red letters that say _ecalP s'suC_ , and across from them sits a man with a face like a hatchet, and Claire.

            Emma's blood stops all over again. Because Claire isn't Claire. She's whatever is inside Claire, the thing that walked out of the ER doors and tried to burn Emma out of her body.

            She's white-hot eyes and the smell of ozone and condensation, and Emma knows the scent. It's tattooed into her memory alongside the sour flavor of beer and cigarette smoke and fear, summer days spent hiding from an angel who could kill her with a touch.

            _I was an angel's vessel._

            "I think a chat is in order," the hatchet-faced man says. His voice is dry and elegant. "But not like this."

            He raises a hand. Emma doesn't realize it's traveling toward Claire until Claire's hand shoots up, gripping his wrist. Her burning eyes turn toward him.

            " _She invited me_ ," the thing that isn't Claire says. " _She is a willing vessel._ "

            The man's lips purse. He doesn't move, but suddenly Claire's body is pinned against the inside of the booth, against the window. Her eyes burn, angry, the muscles of her neck and arms standing out in cords as she fights the force holding her still.

            The man turns back to Emma. "As your sister is indisposed at the moment," he says. "It appears I will be relaying this message to you."

            Emma sits absolutely still.

            "Your sloppy attempts at sorcery came very close to having grave consequences on the fabric of time as you perceive it." The man pauses as a waitress comes up to their table. Middle-aged and auburn-haired, she sets a plate of cherry-drizzled cheesecake in front of him, some sort of nut-covered bread slice in front of the woman, and a slice of cream-cheese-frosted red velvet cake in front of Emma. For Claire, there is nothing; the waitress seems not even to notice her, her eyes unconcerned as she tops off the mug of coffee sitting in front of the man.

            "You want anything else, hon?"

            "I'm fine, thank you." The man unwraps his cutlery delicately and cuts the very tip off his cheesecake. He chews it slowly, pale eyes on Emma. He smells _old_ , like gravestones, like things pulled out of dirt. He swallows. "Eat your dessert, Emma."

            Emma doesn't move to touch her fork or the cake. There's a Claire voice in the back of her head saying something about not being stupid, and a part of her wonders if it really is Claire's voice, reaching out from beneath the angel possessing her, like that's something that could actually happen. It couldn't, she doesn't think, but the thought of Claire being able to hear her right now, somewhere inside her mind, makes Emma bold. "I'm not supposed to take food from strangers."

            "Nor are you supposed to dabble in witchcraft you know nothing about, and yet you seemed to feel no compunctions in doing so."

            Emma scoffs. The man peels open a cup of creamer.

            "I'm getting the distinct impression," he says, "that you don't understand the gravity of what you nearly did."

            He stirs his coffee. He takes a sip. Then he tips the mug onto its side, and light, cream-swirled liquid spills across the tabletop, rushing toward Emma.

            There's scalding liquid heat and then cold. The cold of a basement, of the panic room, but this is neither: Emma looks around, boots scuffing on tile floor. She's in a windowless room, the wall hung with weapons: guns and machetes and a monstrous axe-thing that looks more grown than forged, like the fang of some giant creature. They cast long, sinister shadows across the wall in the light from the two lamps on either side of a bed covered in a boring brown blanket.

            Dean is lying on the bed. Emma stiffens automatically, her eyes going to his. He's staring straight at her, but not at her. Through her.

            She moves, experimentally, but his gaze doesn't shift. He keeps staring straight ahead, and there is something curdling about the emptiness of his gaze. He is wearing headphones, big bulky ones she would have made fun of if his eyes didn't look so dead. She can hear the faint, angry sounds emerging from them, and following the cord down the still line of his neck and barely-moving chest, she sees a familiar pink iPod.

            She flinches when Dean jackknifes upright suddenly. He rips the headphones off, frantic like they hurt, and they land on the bed, the music blasting from them suddenly louder in the quiet room. He grips one arm with the hand of the other, and red light is seeping between his fingers. Light is spiderwebbing from beneath his palm. His jaw is clenched, and as Emma watches, his eyes flicker black, once.

            He looks up. His eyes meet hers.

            Emma stumbles backward.

            His eyes go black again as he bares his teeth at her and smiles.

            Then she's in the diner again, heart galloping, breathing hard. The woman is beside her, smelling of hospital rooms. The man sits across the table, scraping the last red syrup from his plate. And Claire is still frozen against the window, muscles taut.

            The man sets down his fork. "Tessa?"

           

\- o -

 

            A sudden cold gust of air is the only warning they get before Death appears in the middle of the summoning sigil in the grass. Tessa's there too, next to him, but Dean's eyes go straight to his kids beside her. Claire looks immobilized by some sort of _Petrificus Totalus_ , her limbs taut, and Emma's staring at him the way she should have stared at him after she saw vampire!Dean. His hand clenches around the chunk of fulgurite he and Cas dug out of the Impala's trunk.

            "I seem to recall warning you," Death says, "what would happen the next time you attempted to bind me."

            Dean barely hears him. He's staring at Claire, at her glowing, white-edged eyes and empty face. When a hand touches his arm, he jumps.

            It's Tessa. "Dean," she says quietly, and she's giving him the same look she always gives him, the almost gentle one that says _you know how deep this hole is. Stop trying to bullshit yourself into thinking that you can get out._

            He glances back at Claire. Then at Cas. Cas, who's standing there in his dumb grilling apron with the bowl of smoking herbs in his arms, whose face is horrified and desperate and wanting.

            He steps forward. The bowl slips out of his hands onto the grass of the back yard, leaves smears of soot down his arm and front. "Let her go."

            Death tilts his head. "I can't do that."

            Cas looks at him. Centuries burn in his eyes.

            "How is it that you still know so little about free will?" Death says. "You, of all creatures, Castiel. _Claire said yes_."

            "Under what threat?" Dean's finally found his voice. "A sixteen-year-old doesn't just up and say, hey, feather-butt, come hitch a ride with m--"

            "Shut up, Dean."

            Dean's voice dies like a noose was snapped around his throat. He stares at Death, eyes wide.

            "She was not threatened," Death says. "She was saving _you_."

            Dean's stomach drops out. He stares at Clairestiel, at the cold light eyes staring back at him and Cas. Not worried, or frightened. Just curious. Detached.

_I don't serve Man. And I certainly don't serve you._

            "I will give you anything," Cas's voice is low. "Just--please. _Please_."

            Death sighs. He twists his cane in his grip. "And where do you expect me to put him?" he says. "Supposing I was able to remove your past self from his vessel without harming her, where would I put him? He is out of his time. He cannot exists outside it without a vessel to contain him."

            "Then put him in me." Cas's chin rises, exposing his throat. "I am Graceless now. I will be his vessel."

            "Cas--!"

            Death raises a hand, and Dean's voice is killed in his throat.

            Cas looks over his shoulder. Dean's seen the look he's wearing before, as he stepped up to Chuck's glowing windows, as he walked into that reservoir.

            He lunges.

            But he's too slow. Cas's hand touches Clairestiel's. Death's voice says something, a heavy, horrible word that makes Dean's teethe ache and rattle inside his skull, and blinding white light explodes from Claire's eyes.

            Dean slams his own shut. His hands find Emma's shoulders and he yanks her to him, shoving her face into his neck. " _Shut your eyes!"_ he tries to shout, and isn't sure it comes out, there's so much noise and heat and energy roaring around them. The backs of his eyelids are red, and behind them he sees the old Castiel's cold eyes looking out at him from Cas's face. He sees a dark alley, a darker crypt.

            It takes forever for the heat and noise to die away.

            He waits until the insides of his eyelids have faded from hot-red to cool-dark, hand still tight around the back of Emma's hand. He can feel her hot, fast breath against his collarbone even if he can't quite hear it yet. He doesn't let her go as he slits one eye open, wary.

            Death is standing next to Claire and the grill. He's closing a small, glowing jar. Beside him Claire staggers, drops to her knees.

            Dean releases Emma and runs to her. He catches her by the shoulders, the elbows, holds her close in the space left warm by Emma's heat. She's trembling.

            Death finishes sealing the lid of the jar. Blue-white wisps twist inside it: frantic, angry. "Tessa. Return this to its proper time, please."

            Tessa takes the jar. Her eyes meet Dean's. _I'm sorry_ , they almost seem to say. Then she disappears.

            Death turns. His eyes glance across Dean's, as unimpressed and gray as ever, his lips pursed.

            "Perhaps," he says, "you should be more careful about the lessons your children learn from you."

            He adjusts his grip on his cane. Then he, too, is gone.

            A shaky breath escapes Dean. It ruffles Claire's hair against his mouth. Against his chest, he can feel the frantic throb of her heart.

            He holds her tighter when he hears the sound beginning to climb out of her throat. A low hum that blooms into a sob as it breaks across her teeth, into his shirt. She shakes, and Emma creeps closer, crouches beside them. She looks like that frightened four-year-old not sure how to comfort her sister again, and Dean opens one arm to bring her in, to clutch her and Claire both to him as Emma whispers, "Claire. Claire, it's okay."

            Claire cries harder.

            Dean rocks them both, slow, clumsy. Looks over their heads at Cas. He's on his knees. His eyes are dull. Human. He looks back at Dean, and nothing in them changes. He staggers to his feet, fumbling the apron off over his head. He leaves it on the floor as he climbs up the porch steps, slow, silent, shoulders weighed down by the wings he no longer has.

 

\- o -

 

            Dean sits there rocking the girls for a long, long time. Until the last streaks of dusk in the sky give way to night and the mosquito lamps start to buzz on the porch. It's cold, and the damp spots Claire has left on his shirt and neck are even colder. But when he creaks back on his knees to lift Claire and carry her inside, she grabs him tight, fierce.

            He creaks back down. Holds her close again. Emma's warmth leaves his side. He hears steps on the porch but doesn't have the energy to look up, to pull his heavy chin from Claire's cold hair.

            A few minutes later, a soft weight settles over his shoulders. He looks up, then, to see Emma draping the fuzzy old afghan from the couch over him. She pulls it around to cover Claire, too, and then settles against Claire's back wrapped in the comforter from her own bed, shoulder to shoulder with her sister.

            Eventually Claire droops into her. They both slump slowly into the grass, wrapped up in the mess of blankets. If he weren't so tired, Dean might be able to muster some sort of humor at the sight, at Emma curled around Claire like an inversion of those nights five-year-old Claire spent playing octopus with her

            But he's too tired. So when they've both been still and quiet and horizontal for a very long time, Dean disentangles himself carefully from the afghan. He moves into a crouch, knees popping, to drape it more fully over Claire. It takes him a minute to register the yellow gleam of Emma's eyes, staring up at him from over Claire's head.

            His heart kicks into hunter mode before he thinks about it. His breath catches behind his ribs, and for an instant, as they stare at each other, they're predators.

            Then Emma whispers, " _Dad_."

            Dean's breath shudders out. He finds her hand inside the blanket and grips it tight. He presses his mouth to her knuckles, and he keeps them pressed there as she clutches his fingers and starts to cry.

           

\- o -

 

            Cas's book is still on the floor. Cas's foot is next to it, knobby in its black sock, and as Dean rounds the corner of the bed, he sees the rest of Cas's silhouette in the darkness, sitting against the side of the bed. His forehead is pressed against his knee, one pale hand clenched in his dark hair. The other hangs limply over his other leg, a bottle of Dean's Jack Daniels dangling from his fingers.

            He doesn't move when Dean sits down beside him. Only the bottle moves, swaying slightly when Dean's knee knocks against his. Dean takes it, and sets it down next to the book on the floor. Then he reaches behind them, dragging their comforter down off the bed and over their heads.

            They sit in that hot, stifling tent of darkness until Cas starts to cry, too.

 

\- o -

 

            They don't talk about what happened. They don't talk about what they saw, or who they were, or became, or could have been.

            There is only one conversation. Claire is in the Impala with Dean on Saturday morning, as he drives her to marching band practice. She is pale, and quiet, and staring out the window.

            She says, "You told them not to bring you back."

            He looks over at her.

            "In the hospital." Her eyes stay on the road outside. "You signed a DNR."

            Dean is quiet. It takes him a minute to remember. "Oh," he says, finally.

            "Oh," Claire echoes. There's something bitter in her voice, and something wild, and something lost.

            Dean doesn't say anything. He doesn't know how to explain to Claire that he was ready, back then. Tired, and used-up, and...ready.

            Ready to be done.

            Claire turns away from the window. Her eyes are lit clear by the morning sunlight streaming through the windshield; they look colorless, almost, as they gleam. Look white.

            She says, "I would have made him bring you back."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_In another world, another Dean looks away from the scene. Looks at Death, and Tessa, and the glowing jar in her hands._

_"Do you understand?" Death says._

_Dean is tired. The Mark on his arm aches and burns. It whispers hot things in his blood. In his skull. He sees what he could have been, what he should have been, and sees that even there, he fucked up._

_"Dean."_

_He ignores Death. Turns back to the pool table and its queue of balls. Lines up his cue._

_Breaks._

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
